REmake 0
by V-ACT
Summary: Two paths diverge... Will they cross again? A shadow can only exist in light....
1. Prolouge: Dawn of a New Horror

Disclaimer: Rings bell Here ye, here ye! I do not own Resident Evil in any way, shape, or form (which is quite obvious). If I did, Mr. Coen would be in the next game, for he is awesome.

The medic of the S.T.A.R.S. Bravo team walked down the grassy slope of the cliff, the light of the newly risen dawn's sun painting her with its golden rays, casting shadows about her petite form. Her gait seemed easy, but the tenseness of her muscle spoke otherwise. Her slim fingers involuntarily tightened their hold on the handle of her S.T.A.R.S.-issue 9mm handgun, the handle clenched in a white-knuckled grip. She steeled her will, fighting against the urge to turn her head and look back the way she came—to turn her head and look at _him_…. Drawing in a wavering breath, she filled her lungs with the cool, crisp mountain air of the Arklay mountains, re-energizing her wary form somewhat, helping to keep her senses alert; it wouldn't do to have survived the hell she had just been through, only to be cut down by one of the infected canines or other creatures that were loose in the forest below.

Swallowing the lump that had developed in her throat, she blinked back a few stray tears and shifted her gaze towards the ancient looking Umbrella mansion—the Spencer Estate—that loomed on the horizon, seeming to cast a dark pall over all the trees that lay before it. Holstering her handgun, then Rebecca brought the now-free hand up to better support the pump-action shotgun she had been holding in her other hand, her slim fingers wrapping around the barrel, the cool weight of the weapon comforting in her hands. Billy had given her the thirteen shells he had been carrying and suggested that she take the weapon, in case any of the infected baboons or the reptile humanoid creatures had gotten lose into the wilderness.

She looked down towards the loaded weapon, idly taking a mental count of the number of rounds for it she had; the thirteen shells Billy had bequeathed to her, plus the five that were loaded into the weapon, brought her ammunition reserves for it up to fifteen rounds. Her hand strayed towards the pack on her belt, towards the zippered pocket that held the shotgun shells, before she withdrew it, deciding to reload it when she got to the mansion—_if_ she got to the mansion….

_No! Stop that!_ the young, brown-haired medic thought, shaking her head in an attempt to dislodge the disturbing, and slightly morbid, thought from the back of her mind, failing to do so. _You made it through the training facility just fine, so you can make it through the_ _forest in one piece, as well!_

But the voice returned once more, nagging at her. _But you had Billy with you then, didn't you? You don't now. You're on your own now_….

Rebecca's fingers twisted against the cool metal of the shotgun as her grip tightened, and she continued her descent into the dark forest below.

Billy watched as the back of the medic's brown-haired head disappeared from his view as she descended out of his line of sight, and he stayed there for several moments afterwards, staring at the spot where his one-time partner had disappeared. He rubbed at the wrist of his hand that was now free of the dangling handcuffs unknowing, the handgun that he had gotten off of one of his military escorts held in place sideways by his thumb.

Ceasing his ministrations, Billy gazed upwards towards the sun that hovered in the bluish-golden dawn, barely peaking the horizon, staring into the still dull, golden orb. His body was bathed in sunlight yet he did not relish in the warming feel of it, despite the fact that the last time having felt the sensation was over a year ago, and even then under less fortunate circumstances. But as his gaze flicked downwards to rest on the behemoth mansion in the distant, the reason of his unease returned ten—no, a hundred fold. His eyes hardened and his fists clenched, his fingers tightening around the handgun enough to make it creak slightly in protest, as he took in the sight of the foreboding structure—the structure that was owned by _Umbrella_.

Images of the creatures they had faced—the giant centipede and bat; the reptilian humanoids; the leech-people; the infected dogs from Hell; the huge, hulking monstrosity with skin so pale it seemed to glow and curving, three-feet talons like steel knives studding its arm, and its tumor-like heart beating on its sexless chest—and he imagined what demons would be waiting for Rebecca in the mansion.

And a jab of fear entered his mind sharply as he wondered whether he should have given Rebecca the magnum as well, as he had opted to keep in lieu of giving her the shotgun, not sure if she'd be able to handle the powerful recoil of the .50 hand-cannon. But now he was starting to wonder whether he had made a mistake—a mistake that might cost Rebecca her life. What if there was another of those pale skinned giants stalking about the forest floor? What if there was another eight-foot creature that could conceivably kick the ass off all the other monsters they had faced?

And he abruptly shook his head, moving his hand, which had gripped the handle of the magnum sticking out from the waistband of his jeans behind, and he tucked his handgun the band alongside the other weapon. He knew that the chances of there being another one of those creatures—a "Tyrant" he thought, according to one Marcus's report—were nonexistent. He was just making up excuses to go after her.

He promptly chastised himself. If circumstances had been different then maybe things could have turned out differently. But the facts were that she was a member of S.T.A.R.S., an elite law enforcement taskforce, and he was an escaped convict wanted for the murder of twenty-three villagers in Africa. They were each other's enemies as far as society was concerned on the matter. And yet despite that, they had banded together in a truce, to survive, and, against all odds, became friends, became—well, he didn't know what they became, but it was unique. Besides, she had given him his freedom, taking his dog tags and declaring that lieutenant Billy Coen was officially dead.

He turned around, about to begin his trek away into a new life, leaving the identity of Lieutenant William Coen behind—but not forgetting by any means. That would mean forgetting _her_, which was something he refused to do—no matter what.

He didn't know how long he just stood there, gazing into the distance as his mind went over the series of events that had transpired—from the botched-up mission his unit was to in Africa, to his transport to Ragnithon for execution, to meeting Rebecca and surviving the horrors spawned by a seemingly benevolent international pharmaceutical company with her. When he finally did break his revere, the sun looked to be close to noon—perhaps eleven-thirty-ish—and he begun his foray into the hostile territory of the woods, slightly surprised at how fast time had passed him by.

A number of noises filled the air: birds chirping; the sound of his footsteps crunching the blades of grass beneath his feet; and the faint jingle of the spare 9mm Parabellum and .50 caliber magnum rounds clinking together against their kin in their respective pockets of his jeans. But before he got far, a small flicker of movement among some nearby bushes got his attention. Pausing, he turned his head to see what it was.

There, low to the ground, strung among some bushes, was a spider web, and in it was a butterfly, adhered to the sticky thread as it fluttered it silken wings in vain, trying to dislodge itself.

Walking over slowly, Billy knelt before crisscrossing gossamer strands, inspecting, the sight eliciting a strange, uneasy feeling of dread in his stomach as he regarded the ensnared winged insect to free itself from the bindings. The ex-marine's brow furrowed as he regarded the sight, feeling a strange feeling of pity for the poor creature, but more so trying to figure out why the sight of it disturbed his so. His eyes strayed to the Spencer Estate for but a second, and they widened, realization hitting him suddenly, causing him to reel back as if physically slapped.

That old Umbrella mansion was a deathtrap—a web—and Rebecca was the butterfly wandering into it, into her death.

And abruptly, his shoulders squared, his jaw clenched, and his eyes steeled with determination. He was currently officially "dead" as far as the world knew—or would soon know—but even if he did leave, the guilt of letting Rebecca go into that mansion, and possibly to her death, would gnaw at his conscience for the rest of his life.

Reaching down to the ground, the light from the sun playing across the intricate tribal tattoo that adorned his left arm, Billy grabbed a stick and set about prodding the webbings around the trapped butterfly, freeing it. He watched as it fluttered off into the sky, strands of silky webbing still clinging to its fragile wings.

Reaching behind him, he removed his 9mm pistol, reloaded the clip, and cocked the slide back to chamber a phantom bullet, as he held at it ready, the muzzle hailing the sky.

And the ex-lieutenant started down the gentle sloping incline of the cliff, preparing his mind for whatever freaked-out shit might be lurking in the forest below. And as he ventured into the shadows of the thick underbrush, Billy Coen returned from the precipice of oblivion, not content to fade away into memory—at least, not yet.

As Billy walked into the forest, and Rebecca navigated its thick maze of tree trunks, neither of them noticed the beings that gazed at them from the shadows that surrounded them, watching them with a multitude of watery eyes, singing out a silent tune of vengeance that only could hear.


	2. Chapter 1: Arrival and Confrontations

Somewhere in the expanse of trees that darted the Arklay mountains on the outskirts of Raccoon City, a living sea of spongy tissue, needlelike teeth, and watery eyes moved through the shadow of the underbrush, avoiding the rays of sunlight that filtered through the thick canopy above. The mass of creatures were crying out in a single watery voice, a dirge of sadness that only they could hear as the emotion of grief filtered through their collective mind, unable to be filtered by their queen, who would have soothed them with her lulling, siren song of assurance.

And yet another emotion was present in their all-yet-single mind, driving them forth through their anguish of the loss of their queen, the hive, and their siblings. The blanket of squirming leeches continued on, leaving the dirt slick with a trail of viscous slime behind them as they continued on towards a monolithic mansion in the foreground, the memory of their farther, James Marcus, guiding them, driving them along with the desire of revenge that burned within them.

Albert Wesker reclined back in the chair of his desk, his fingers tented before his face, his feet propped on the desk, crossed at the angle; his gaze was set forward, towards no point in particular, not really taking in the image of the S.T.A.R.S. office as he stared at the world through the tinted haze of his perpetual glasses. He reviewed the events of the previous hours in his minds; it was a mostly clear image, but a few pieces of the puzzle were missing. And while he didn't need these pieces of the puzzle to figure out what had happened—or the general gist of it, at least—he couldn't help but wonder on some subjects

Like who had that young man in the white robe been? The captain of S.T.A.R.S. had an idea, one that was seemingly impossible and yet seemed to be the only thing that made sense in his mind. And if it was true, how had occurred? How was it possible that the man was who the former Umbrella scientist thought he to be?

The hidden thoughtful expression donning his face contorted as he smirked. What did it matter? Soon he would be out of Umbrella's clutches, and such things would be irrelevant. Besides, the robed man had most likely gone up in flames with the rest of the training facility and the water treatment plant.

All he had to worry about was getting the Alpha team to go into the woods under the pretense that they were on a "reconnaissance rescue mission" to locate Bravo Team. After that was done, all he had to do was sit back, make sure that all the members of Bravo Team weren't in possession of any information that could harm him, and set the mansion to blow, eliminating any evidence that linked him to any research the T-virus, before he made off with the combat data on Umbrella's pets and sold it to the highest bidder.

The S.T.A.R.S. medic made her way through the forest, her pistol facing the ground, at ready in one hand, and she tried to shake the sense of unease that had been with her shortly after leaving Billy on the cliff side. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled as she felt as if a hundred eyes were staring at her from the shadows around her. The gentle pad of her feet upon the ground blended in with the rustling of the canopy above, the sound of a snapping twig or crunching leaf beneath her boot occasionally interjecting into the symphony.

She had been walking for a couple of hours, her senses on edge the entire time, attuned to search for any sign that danger was near. She was within five hundred yards of the Umbrella mansion now, the house looming over her, a shadow was cast from the noon day's sun, blanketing the area in a pall, as if the darkness it self were a cancer upon nature itself.

Her green eyes roving over the Spencer Estate, anxiety building within her as she wondered what horror was contained within its behind the opulent façade. But then the auburn-haired medic stilled as a crunching noise came from nearby not a muscle in her body moving as she trained her ears for the sound.

There was only silence.

Dismissing the noise as a phantom conjured by her anxiety, Rebecca resumed her pace, albeit at a wearier pace, now entering the cool shadow of the mansion that eclipsed the sun.

And it felt as if the very marrow in her bones had turned to ice as a familiar, piercing shriek filled the air, its source dangerously close. Adrenaline pumped through her veins in an instant as she took off running for the mansion, praying that she would make it as she heard the rapid sound of the beast behind her begin its pursuit. Her mind instantly conjured up images of the reptilian humanoid that had been lurking in the kennel room of the research facility beneath the church, of how the 9mm rounds from her pistol bounced of the creature's tough hide, barely hurting it. She had received a series of gashes across her arm as a gift from the monster, and she would not have survived had it not been for Billy coming and blowing the creature's face away with a hail of buckshot from the shotgun she now carried.

Remembering the weapon she had forgot she had been holding, long since becoming accustomed to its weight in her hand, she wondered if she could stop, turn around, aim, and blast the creature, all without getting eviscerated by its thick talons. She quickly decided against this as she listened to the rapid tempo of the beasts footfalls; the one she had seen had abnormally long arms that nearly reached the floor, and judging by the sounds behind her, the creature was darting after her on its knuckles, moving as a gorilla would.

She was no the fifty yards away when she heard her the monster behind her let out a bloodcurdling keen that caused birds to flock from their resting places in the canopy above. Her legs moving on autopilot, heedless of the burning in their muscles as they desperately screamed for oxygen, the medic continued towards the gate of the estate; but in her mind Rebecca knew that it was too late, that the creature was soaring through the air, launched from airborne with the powerful corded muscles in its legs as it pounced on its pray, its maw of razor teeth exposed. And the S.T.A.R.S. medic would have been dead had she not tripped over the tree root and fallen prostate to the leaf-covered earth; the creature overshot her, and it would of let out a wail of frustration at being denied its prey had it not flown straight into the trunk of an oak tree, a resounding crunch sounding out as the bark of the tree splintered as the kinetic energy of the creature transferred to the creature.

Watching as it fell, Rebecca didn't entertain the idea of it being seriously injured—if anything, the tree had gotten the raw end of the deal on the collision—but it was disorientated, and she decided not to waste her good fortune.

Getting up, seemingly every muscle in her body aching from the strain she was putting them under to survive, she crossed the distance and sprinted under the arched opening of the gate that surrounded the perimeter of the mansion; and even as she did this she heard the creature let out another wail, this time fueled by rage as well as the primal urge to rip her limb-from-limb. Turning around, she slammed the gates of the fence closed, and as she did this she beheld the image of the monster soaring towards her, looking like a perverted angel of death, bits of splintered tree bark covering its body in places. She almost froze from shock but stopped herself, and the medic did the first thing she could think of: she rammed the shotgun between loops of the gate handles and ran for the doors of the mansion, praying to whatever gods that may be listening that they were not locked. The doors swung open even as she heard the metal of the fence screech and groan in protest as her pursuer's body collided with the barred gate. Dashing into the building, not even taking in the sight of the luxurious foyer, she turned and slammed the door, bracing her back against. And as the door shut, she saw the shotgun fly from the loops of the gate, noticeably bent, as the creature rammed the barrier a second time; the weapon landed on the ground, out of her view.

Breathing heavily, the rookie put all of her weight to the door, hearing the scream of the beast outside, separated only by a few inches of wood that would easily splinter should it attack. She waited, her breath frozen in her throat, for the shuddering impact of the reptile's body colliding with the door.

It never came.

Outside, the Hunter prepared to leap at the door, intending to reduce it to splinters to get to its pray, when a sound from the shadows along the house alerted it. Turning around, it saw a man walk towards in the shadows. The creature got ready to pounce, letting out a scream; it never got the chance as the man's arm shot out, stretching out, and all the Hunter knew then was darkness….

Rebecca waited there a full two minutes before she opened her eyes. She listened; there was nothing. Letting out a breath she had not been aware she had been holding, Rebecca slid limply down the door, resting her head on the surface of the wood as she collected her wits. After regaining her wits, Rebecca finally noticed the environment that she was in.

It was like the Umbrella training facility in a lot of ways; it screamed of wealth, with a wide staircase dominating the room, framed by two pillars on either side. The staircase met with a landing where it met it the wall, which had a large stain glass window placed into it, before splitting off in either direction into dual sets of staircases that led to a wide balcony. There were a number of doors on either side of the room on both floors, leading into unknown areas, as what looked to be an alcove behind the stairs.

Rebecca was drawn from her admiration of the architecture of George Trevor as an eclipsing wave of despair fell over, and had she not been sitting down, she would have from the sense of weariness that enveloped her just then.

_When will it end?_ the medic asked herself, the cancerous thought of having to survive another living hell like a slap to the face. And this time she would have to make it through without Billy….

_No!_ Rebecca thought adamantly, pushing away the despair as she got to her feet; she would make it out alive! Shifting the focus of her mind, Rebecca took stock of her situation. She was down her most powerful weapon, stuck in a mansion with God only knows what, and she was utterly alone, having no idea where Bravo Team was, or if they even were even inside the mansion. Letting out a frustrated sigh, Rebecca was about to go about checking her pistol round capacity when she felt a wet stickiness on her arm. Looking down she saw that her arm was coated in slick blood. She must have reopened the wound that the reptile monster in the Umbrella Training Facility had given her while she had been fleeing from its cousin.

Setting down her gun, she got out her first aid kit and set about treating her wound.

Forest Speyer was in a cramped corridor on the second floor of the Spencer Estate, heading towards the single door at the other end. Hefting his RPG grenade launcher in his hand, he turned the doorknob and shoved open the door with his shoulder. Before him lay him a small covered balcony leading to a patio adorned with a cast iron table and chairs.

As he began to step out onto the balcony, Forest heard a shrill shriek coming from down below on the ground, and he froze. Listening for a repeat of the unearthly sound, the sniper waited, and after failing to whatever had shrieked mime its call, he cast a glance to the balcony, which seemed much more foreboding than before.

Turning around, Forest began heading back into the dimly lit, cramped corridor, shutting the door behind him; after hearing that banshee-like wail, he didn't fancy going out onto the balcony and meeting up with made it—plus a strange sense of dread had settled into his gut, one that hadn't been there before the shriek. He decided to head back to the main hall, and from there, he would find something to do.

As he left, he never noticed the horde of beady eyes watching him from the railing, as a flock of crows gathered, their stares ravenous and their sharp beaks gleaming in the sun.

Billy hopped over the fence, his chest heaving as he slid down to a sitting position, feeling safer now that he had a barrier to act as a buffer between him and whatever might be lurking in the forest, he went about catching his breath. The second he heard the distant scream of the Hunter somewhere in the woods up ahead, he immediately became afraid for Rebecca, and he hadn't stopped running since. It was twilight now, the sun now setting on some unseen point.

Sucking in greedy breaths of air into his lungs, Billy looked up, his gun lying in his hand on his lap, and he looked around where he was, hoping there weren't any zombies nearby.

He was in a cemetery.

He looked skyward and closed his eyes in frustration. The former marine didn't know whom he had pissed off up there to deserve this, but whatever he had done he was sorry.

"God, my luck sucks," he muttered to himself as he got up, wondering why fate always had to shit on him. He eyed the tombstones around him with apprehension; if he walked on them, would the cold, slimy claws of the undead shoot up from their resting place to claw at his ankles, like they did in the movies?

Billy knew he was being ridiculous—the idea sounded ridiculous in his mind!—but he thought of all the things he had seen in the last twenty-four hours, from zombies to giant bats to a giant, hulking monster with knives for fingers on one hand.

He wasn't going to take any chances.

Walking forward, he brought down one of his boots onto the area of a grave, and immediately jumped away as if he had been burnt; he gazed at the ground, alert, his pistol aimed at the spot, ready to blow the living hell out of anything that even dared to emerge from the ground. When nothing came, he relaxed and mentally criticized himself; the zombies that had been in the facilities and on the trains hadn't been the strongest of creatures, and they didn't show signs of possessing enough strength to plow their fist through a few feet of solid earth. Besides that, judging from how old the mansion's exterior looked to be, all the corpses in the ground would be only skeletal remains by now, eaten away by maggots and earthworms, making it impossible for them to rise up from the grave.

_Get a hold of yourself, Coen,_ he criticized himself as he shook his head at his foolishness. _That shit only happens in Hollywood,_ he further rationalized to himself in his mind as he began to walk forward, still walking somewhat cautiously over the space before the graves despite his self-chastising. _Besides, the important thing to do right now is to find Rebecca and make sure she hasn't become maggot bait in this hell-house._

Reaching behind him, he withdrew the military pistol from the waistband of his jeans; brining it up, his chocolate eyes shot to the firearm in concern. How many rounds did it have left? He knew he checked earlier, but he couldn't remember now. Did it even have any left in the magazine? He was about to release the safety keeping the magazine in the gun and check his ammo count when he heard shouts firing from nearby.

His head whipping towards the sound of the shots, Billy saw a wide cement plinth to his left, upon which a tombstone was set; he couldn't tell from here, but he thought there was a hole from the faint glow of light that seemed to be emerging from the stone; another shot rang from the phantom hole, the light issuing forth intensifying from the flare of the muzzle flash of the handgun being discharged within the underground.

Fearing it was Rebecca, the ex-lieutenant set off towards the plinth, hoping that he did indeed have rounds in his weapon. But it never occurred to him that it might not be Rebecca, that it might be one of her less benevolent S.T.A.R.S. Bravo compatriots…. He continued on, running down the stone steps, feeling as if he were descending into the very bowels of Hell itself.

Reaching the bottom, he found that he had been both right and wrong. He found himself in what looked to be a crematory; light from an old fashion furnace, grills along the wall, and torches resting in sconces along the wall gave a sinister feel to the underground room as it caused the shadows of the room to dance and write. And there, at the far end of the room, backed against a pedestal, was a person, the legend S.T.A.R.S. showing on their vest as they frantically tried to reload a handgun as a zombie advanced on them—but it wasn't Rebecca. It was a Hispanic man whom looked to be in his late thirties to early forties, with a neatly trimmed mustache and well-groomed hair.

Billy, having been ready to come to aid of besieged person in the crematory, hesitated for the slightest second. This was a S.T.A.R.S. person—one who didn't believe he was innocent, unlike Rebecca; he'd most likely try to arrest him on sight and send him back to Regathon to carry out his execution order. Yet even as the doubt entered his head, Billy saw the frantic look on the man's face, saw the zombie advancing, now doubt a slack-mouth, vacant, hungry look on its rotting face, and the ex-marine decided.

Taking aim, he fired.

Enrico backed up in fear, trying desperately to reload his gun, but fumbling with the spare magazine of Parabellum rounds and dropping them to the ground. His eyes darted to the fallen ammo before returning to the rotting face of his assailant, and his brain knew what it was seeing—the gaping whole in its skull, exposing gray matter; the torn and bloody lip, giving it a morbid, perpetual grin; the empty eye socket—and had seen him send three rounds straight into man's gut, but he refusing to believe it.

The "zombie continued its shuffling and limping gait, its cadaverous arms reached out, groping towards the leader of the Bravo Team with scabbed fingers as viscous strands of drool fell from its mouth, escaping between the gaps of the rotting teeth on its lower jaw.

Enrico found his backwards progress halted as he suddenly collided with an unknown object, and his eyes frantically darted about, his mind trying to find some way to escape from the crazed man that was advancing on him. The third in command of S.T.A.R.S. closed his eyes and forced down a gag as the man came close enough for him to smell the stagnant stench of rotten meat coming off his body; when suddenly, with a deafening roar that drowned out the incoherent moans of the crazed man, and a flash of light, the hostile fell to the ground in slump. Enrico opened his eyes and looked down, seeing the now-twitching body of the putrid man, taking in the smoking hole in the back of its head, and taking in through a section of torn shirt on the man's back, that the gleaming white bone of his spinal column was showing. Brining his gaze up, Enrico saw his savior, and he felt as if the very blood in his veins froze.

There, standing at the base of the steps with a gun pointed to him and a slight frown on his face, was the convict Billy Coen—a man sent to execution for the murder of twenty-three innocents.

Fugitive and leader of a special police task force stared at each other, two people on opposite sides of the law. Billy knew that he had the advantage here, that even though he didn't know if he had another bullet in his gun, he knew that the man across the room didn't know that, and knew that the man didn't have any ammo in his gun, for a fact. Deciding it best to use the advantage he had, the ex-marine donned the same façade of arrogance he had worn when he had met Rebecca on the train.

"Well, well," he drawled in a cool manner, narrowing his brown eyes to make them look cold, "another S.T.A.R.S…. I seem to be running into a lot of you guys tonight.

Enrico stared at the covicted felon for all but a second before raising his gun as well; his face taking on mask of confidence that Billy knew was nothing more than a show of bravado. "Billy Coen, as captain of the S.T.A.R.S. Bravo team, I am hearby placing you under arrest for transport to Regathon Base." To the man's credit, his voice didn't skip a pace when he lied.

Billy felt his lips curling into a smirk at the sense of déjà vu he was getting, as the situation was very much like his meeting with the medic of the S.T.A.R.S. Bravo team—only difference was this man wasn't a rookie on their first mission, and he wouldn't hesitate to shoot him, so it was a good thing that he was out of ammo. "Do you S.T.A.R.S. members make it a habit of threatening to shoot and arrest every person that saves your lives, or am I just lucky?" the former second lieutenant of the marine corps asked, just the slightest, almost undetectable hint of amusement entering his voice. Enrico's reply to this was his face taking on a slight look of confusion before he schooled it back into his poker face, and cocked the barrel of his gun back in a threatening matter.

"Come off it," Billy said, slightly exasperated at the show of masochism that the man in front of his was displaying. "You aren't fooling anyone. I know for a fact that that weapon is dry—I saw you drop the magazine of bullets."

Enrico's bluff faltered at this revelation, and the slightest hint of fear donned his rough features.

"As a matter of fact," Billy continued, gesturing towards the ground with the gun, "why don't you drop your gun to the ground and kick it and that magazine of ammo over to me. And don't try any fancy shit, hotshot; chances are that, even at this distance, I could plant a bullet in your brain before you could even begin to load your gun." A loud scraping sound echoed out in the crematory as the gun and magazine slid a stop just before the marine's boot.

"What now?" Enrico asked, his arms crossed, glaring. "Are you going to kill me like you did those soldiers?" Enrico saw just the barest flicker of emotion enter Billy's face, almost as if he were flinching at the accusation, but it disappeared just as quickly as the convict bent down to collect the standard issue pistol and the ammo magazine.

"I don't shoot the good guys," was the only answer Billy gave to Enrico, confusing the captain slightly. "Well, as nice as our chat time has been, I've got to go; in case you haven't noticed, there's some pretty freaky shit in this place, and I for one don't want to become dinner," he said, gesturing to the now-re-dead corpse that lied on the ground before the S.T.A.R.S. member. "And I wouldn't advise you follow me for at least two minutes—unless you want to get shot, that is," Billy said, giving the captain a jaunty salute with his pistol before walking to the base of the narrow stair way, playing up the part of the sociopath murderer that the man at the far end of the crematorium, by the boiler, thought he was. When he was up a few steps, almost out of Enrico's sights, he spoke up. "Oh," he called back, his voice echoing down the stairway and ringing in the Bravo captain's ears, "and I didn't kill those soldiers."

With that said, the only sound that Enrico heard was the fading footsteps of the murderer. To say that their meeting hadn't left the man in charge of Bravo team a little confused would be a lie. Sighing, the man brought a hand up to rub the stubble on his face; he had to wait at least two minutes. Looking around, his gaze fell on the corpse at his feet, and he looked at it in morbid curiosity, wondering just what the hell was wrong with the person, and why he didn't even seem to notice three rounds being barreled into his gut.

Walking out into the cool night air, Billy reviewed the conversation he had just had a moment before in his mind, and he found his eyes widening in slight interest. So that was Rebecca's superior, huh? Looking down to the handgun he had confiscated from—what was it? Enrico, he thought he had heard on Rebecca's radio? Looking down to "Enrico's" handgun that he had confiscated, Billy debated whether or not he should keep it. If he gave it back, chances were more than likely that the man would turn its barrel toward him without a second's thought. But if he didn't give it back, he would be leaving a man, who was only trying to do his job, and working on information that was true for all he knew, defenless in the zombie infested mansion.

Letting out a sigh into the cool night air, Billy cursed his conscience, musing once again on how much easier this "run-away fugitive" business would be if he didn't have one. Walking over to the edge of the plinth, Billy slapped the clip of ammo into the gun and slid the bridge back, loading a round into it, before setting it down at the base of the steps leading to the platform. Hopefully he would find it there.

Looking around, Billy realized that he had better get moving; two minutes was almost up, and he had to find Rebecca.


	3. Grim Despair

Author's Notes: Greetings, readers. I am hoping that you are getting as much enjoyment out of reading this as I am writing this. I particularly like this story since I get to employ the use of the former second lieutenant, ex-marine, Billy Coen—a character whom I hope is brought back in a future Resident Evil title due to the interesting background of his character? And so without further ado, I give you chapter 3 of REmake 0. Enjoy.

Addendum: Oh and guys? I really feel utterly disgusted with myself. I myself hate it when I find a kick-ass story that seems to have been abandoned to the merciless tides of time, and I was about to do it myself.

If I ever become this lazy again, feel entirely free to e-mail me a verbal ass kicking and tell me to get my act together, okay? Just be sure to put the subject as RE or Resident Evil, else wise my filter will condemn it to the hells of spam-dom.

Enrico walked up the steps up the stairway leading down to the crematory, flanked on either side by the walls of the claustrophobic hallway. He had a worried look on his face. Things did not look good: He had no idea how many of his men (and a woman) had made it to the manor and not been ripped to shreds by the pack of wild dogs in the woods; there was an escaped murderer on the premises; and some, if not all of the inhabitants of the Spencer Estate were infected by some kind of flesh eating disease that made them insane.

And the fact that Coen had his only weapon was just a happy little bonus to his current situation.

Thos people—they had to be sick, right? The S.T.A.R.S. Bravo Team leader was studiously ignoring the little voice in the back of his mind; the one that said he was just feeding himself a load of bullshit; the one that pointed out that he had shot the man three times in the gut without him so much as flinching and that the man had part of his brain exposed.

The voice that kept saying one verbatim, over and over in his head: _Zombie_.

Enrico didn't have much more time to ponder his contemplations of stereotypical Hollywood horror creatures as he stepped into the cool night air, hearing the sound of a few crickets chirping and singing out into the night from the thick curtain of trees that laid beyond the gate that surrounded the cemetery. He had only taken a few steps along the stone plinth, his gaze downcast, wondering just what he was going to do, when his eyes saw an object lying just on the edge of the platform that was a sight for sore eyes. His gun.

The S.T.A.R.S. member stopped and stared at the gun, not really believing his luck. Was it even luck? Had Coen accidentally dropped it without knowing—_without hearing_ the loud clatter of the 9mm projectile weapon's plastic frame against the stone in the silent night?

Bending down, Enrico scooped it up, and looking it over he noticed that the magazine that he had dropped underground had been loaded into the weapon. The mind of the superior officer of the Bravo Team raced through theories on how the gun had gotten there, discarding them each as fast as they came. And after a short moment of creating scenarios in his head, and dismissing them just as quickly, Enrico Marini was left with only one probable conclusion, impossible as it seemed to him.

Billy Coen, a sociopath who had murdered a village of twenty-three people, had seemingly loaded the weapon and left it for him.

But it made no sense. What good could an escaped felon obtain by assisting a law enforcement official? Enrico let out a sigh, massaging his temples with his free hand as he holstered his reacquired weapon, deciding it was better to not think the matter through any further and just accept his good fortune that he wouldn't be left with only a combat knife in the mansion, as he had thought a few minutes ago. This situation was messed up enough without adding Coen and the possible reasons he did things into the equation. He had better things to do—like finding out if any of his boys had made it to the mansion in one piece.

Little did he and the incoming S.T.A.R.S. Alpha Team know, they were about to have their question answered very, very soon . . ..

Deep within the mansion, in a small room, which was located underground and darted with candles, a dull, plodding thumping could be heard, accompanied by the grating screech of metal along stone as the sounds' source continued to move. A rattling moan akin to a creature in anguish issued out and lingered in the air as an echo, a the sound a grim harmony to the morbid environment.

Billy glanced around the main foyer of the Spencer Estate, frowning at all the doors he saw leading into various parts of the mansion from the second story balcony as well as the first floor. _Great_, he drawled sarcastically in his mind as his eyes darted about the foyer, his grip on his gun still tense. _This place looks even larger than the Training Facility, and somehow I doubt that the queen of a bunch of parasites is going to leave the keys to this place lying around and the doors open like in the Training Facility._ _But on the bright side_, he reasoned to himself in his mind, _this place is better lit than the Training Facility, and there won't be any damn leeches or leech-zombies. . . . And I'm talking to myself in my head, aren't I? Just great. At this rate I'll be back in the nut house, but for insanity this time instead of supposedly committing mass homicide._

Billy shook his head, not wanting to dredge up the bitter memories from the dark recess in his mind where he had stored them away to rot. Walking down the rugged stairs, noting that this mansion, like the now-destroyed Training Facility, had ostentatious displays of opulence all about it. _And with any luck, this place will have obscure puzzles designed to chop your head off if you didn't get them right on the first try._ Turning left as he feet touched down upon the marble of the first floor, he headed towards a set of double doors that looked as good as way as any to start his search for the medic of Bravo Team, all the while wondering once more on the idea that if Umbrella felt the need to be so damn clever, why couldn't they just stick to damn crossword puzzles.

Pulling on the door he found it to be unlocked and began to enter into the room that had been revealed to be a dining room with a long oak table acting as the centerpiece of the room. His progress was stopped as a faint sound that was more of a dull echo of a buzz than anything reached his ears. He stopped, not making a sound, straining his hearing as the impression of the sound reached him, his mind racing to bring up possible things that the sound could be matched up with. Failing in his mental task, Billy merely tightened his grip over the handle of the military-issue firearm and listened; it seemed to be coming from outside the walls of the mansion.

He debated whether or not he should open the entrance doors of the foyer to try to get a better hearing of the noise, but this notion was quickly dismissed. _Fuck that_, the ex- marine and lieutenant thought to himself in the privacy of his thoughts. _It's dark out, and who knows what kind of whacked out shit escaped from the Facility._

Entering the dinning room and shutting the door behind him, Billy continued on, ignorant of the copter touching down in the woods outside of the mansion.

The world was viewed in a dark and watery haze by the beings—or, rather, _being_—that lurked obscured by the forms of the skeletal trees around them. A multitude of watery eyes regarded the fleeing figures, flinching slightly whenever one of them turned around a fired a shot—issuing a bright flare of fire from the muzzle of the gun—at one of the decomposing canines that chased them.

The collective of beings debated to itself, mewing softly in a watery gurgle that went unheard by all but them, if it should just kill the new intruders right now. Gazing at the fleeing figures, it saw that they, too, were heading towards the mansion in the distance—where the _murders_ were. . ..

Turning about and moving towards the looming mansion on a trail of slime, the collection of leeches decided to leave the newcomers alone for the time being. They weren't important. The murders were.

Rebecca winced slightly as she poured the disinfectant over the wound she had suffered from the reptilian beast in the Training Facility, though she doubted the alcohol would do little good if the virus had entered her.

After wondering around, and leaving a few undead that had been in her way with quarter-sized holes in their heads, she had found this small, well lit room off into an alcove by a set of stairs at the end of a hallway, which led up to the second story of the mansion. Sitting down on the bed alongside the wall, Rebecca heard the faint jingle of a handful of loose bullets in her pockets. Reaching into her pocket, she removed the Parabellum rounds; ejecting the clip from her gun, she reloaded it and counted her remaining ammo. With the remaining rounds, the fully loaded clip, and the bullet in the chamber of the weapon, she had seventeen rounds.

The medic's head hung in slight despair. She only had seventeen handgun rounds left; sure that seemed to be a lot, and would do well against the zombies, which only took one well aimed shot to the head to fell, but what if there were more of the humanoid reptiles in this place, or, worse yet, the leech humanoids? Handgun bullets wouldn't be likely to do much damage to the thick skin of the reptiles, and the leech-beings would just absorb the slugs as if they were nothing. She knew for a fact that there were at least four shotgun rounds in her back pocket, but little good they did her when their weapon was laying out in front of the mansion, bent into a twisted heap good for little more than a club.

The suffocating tides of despair began to close in on Rebecca, as her situation seemed to only get worse, compounding upon itself in her fatigued mind. She was going to die in this hell house. She was wounded, hadn't slept for at least fifteen hours time, and was low on ammo in an extremely hostile environment. She had barely survived the Ecliptic Express, the Training Facility, and the sewage treatment plant—and that had been with the help of Billy. And he wasn't here now.

Rebecca shook her head sharply, berating herself sharply in her mind for being so pathetic. What would Billy think if he could see her like this? Her fingers tightened around the handle of her S.T.A.R.S.-issue pistol in a white-knuckled grip, and she clenched her teeth. Getting off the bed, she walked over to the shelf where she had gotten the disinfectant and scanned her eyes over the labels of the containers that rested on the shelf, noting a slight film of dust settled upon them as she searched for something other that could be of benefit to her in her situation.

Grabbing another bottle of disinfectant, this one appearing only to be half full, she went over to the bed and undid her first-aid kit. Removing the roll of bandages from the kit, she glanced down to her arm, her mind, for the first time, taking note of the slight stinging that the alcohol caused on the wound as she watched the surface bubble up before spilling down the length of her arm in a wet trail.

Gripping the sheet of the bed, she wiped her arm dry before wrapping a bandage around her arm and fastening it with a clip. Storing away the cleansing alcohol in the kit, she pocketed her loose ammo once more, re-holstered her gun, and headed towards the door with a determined air.

She would make it out of this place. She would live to see another day—or she would die trying.

Jill ran through the darkened forest, the snarls of hunger and the patter of feet on fallen leaves dogging her from only a few feet behind. Occasionally one of teammates would falter in their stride to turn back and take a shot at the pursuing "dogs."

"Dogs;" they could hardly be called "dogs" anymore—doglike was more appropriate, or better yet, "demonic." Indeed the beasts that were chasing them through the forest were something that nature couldn't, and would never, produce naturally—they were hellhounds spawned forth from the loins of the very underworld itself.

Her lungs burning with in her, her legs screaming out avid protest, Jill Valentine of the S.T.A.R.S. Bravo team continued to move as if her very life depended upon it—for it did. All the while, she was, as she was sure her all of her teammates were also, cursing Brad "Chicken heart" Vickers to the furthest depths of Hell, and she made a mental to beat his scrawny ass black and blue if she out of here alive—though she was sure that she would have to take a place in line behind Wesker, Chris, and Barry before she got her chance to do it.

The wet slapping sound of intestine and peeling muscles faintly registered in her consciousness, and, had she not been directing all of her efforts into running away from the source of the sounds, she was sure she would have shuddered in revulsion. Chris, Barry, and Wesker had already made it past the rusted gates that surrounded the perimeter of the mansion, and as she sprinted through, she felt herself trip up in her step and go sprawling to the ground.

She vaguely heard Chris yell out in concern, but all she saw was the one dog-demon that managed to make it through the gates before Wesker and Barry managed to slam them close, the later sliding a garden rake from a nearby discarded pile of gardening tools through the slots to bar the gate close against the dogs that jumped against it in rapid hunger.

The world seemed to slow to crawl, as if everything had been covered in molasses as she saw the face of the dog that should by all rights not be alive come closer and closer to her. It's face was a grinning rictus of horror: strips of loose flesh (whether it was the dog's or not, Jill wasn't sure) hung from its bloody gums; it stared through one eye, the other just a bloody socket, as it snapped its snarling jaws at her, long strands of crimson tinged saliva hanging from its jaws.

She saw Chris running forward to assist her, but she knew that he would never make it in time; she looked about the darkened lawn for something to defend herself with. She saw what looked like a long, bent metal rod lying on the grass within arms reach. Slapping her hand out frantically, she closed her palm around the cool metal and swung it at the oncoming dog, a grim sense of satisfaction welling up inside of her as she heard the grinding crack of the metal connecting with dogs jaw, and the following whelp of pain as it went flying to the side, its flight path altered by blow.

Scrambling to her feet, she did not bother to glance at the now-still dog that lay upon the cool lawn of the mansion, its neck broken and dark ichor oozing from its mouth. Running towards the form of Wesker, who stood beside the open front of doors of the mansion, gesturing to her to hurry with his arm as he watched the gates strain against the onslaught of the dogs that were assaulting them, Jill hurried. Her captain was yelling something out to her, and it she should've have well been able to hear and understand him at this distance, but his voice was just a muted blur of sound, the only sound that her mind focused on at that moment was the groaning of the wooden rake, soon followed by the sharp cracking sound of the wood finally splintering.

Moving with speed she had not previously know she had possessed, Jill dove through door as Wesker fired two rounds into the group of oncoming dogs, the metal bar that she had not let go off scraped against the marble flooring of the foyer.

Panting with exertion, Jill flipped over onto her back and stared up at the high, vaulted ceiling of the mansion far above her, her chest heaving as her burning lungs sucked in large gulps of oxygen greedily.

Her body aching, Jill was aware of only one fact as she lay upon the cold stone floor of the foyer: that she was still alive.

Billy was examining a pool of blood by the fire place, wondering if it belonged to one of the monsters, or one of the S.T.A.R.S. members, or possibly even a survivor—or _Rebecca_, but he refused to entertain the last thought and pushed it resolutely from his mind.

His attention was drawn from the buddle of sanguine liquid when he heard a commotion from somewhere outside the main foyer, followed by the sound of the door opening, frantic voices, the fire of gunshots, and a feral bark that he knew all too well.

Billy kneeled there by the puddle, listening to the muted voices in the foyer that he could not well make out with the crackling of the fire and the closed door of the dining room. As such, he did not notice the door across from him swing open, nor did he notice the figure staring at him with a look of shock, followed by fear on his face. And Billy Coen raised his head in time to see the figure pointing a handgun in his direction.

Letting out a sharp curse, Billy threw himself to the side, prostrate on the floor just as two rounds slammed into the wall in the same area where his head had been a few seconds before. He heard the dry click of a firing pin striking and finding only an empty chamber, and he looked up to the retreating figure of a dark-skinned man retreating into a hallway. Getting up, Billy grabbed his gun and hurried after him. He had just entered the white painted hall when he heard a scream to his left, and turned and saw the man standing in a small, open carpeted area, his eyes wide as a zombie lurched towards him a few feet away.

Raising his weapon and taking aim on the stalking figure of the ghoul, Billy pulled his finger over the trigger, fully expecting to hear the familiar discharge of a metal slug being sent through the air followed by the wet slap of it piercing rotten flesh, instead he heard a strange sound come from his gun.

Looking down at the military weapon in panic, the ex-lieutenant pulled the trigger again, only to receive the same sound as a reward for his efforts. Fumbling with his gun, which he now realized had jammed, Billy's mind raced frantically as he stared at the zombie which was now only three feet from man, who had backed into a sofa against the wall and was now huddled in fear as he pointed an empty gun at the advancing monster and pulled the trigger with no result whatsoever.

In that instance, Billy felt the metal of the .50 caliber magnum pressing against his lower back from where he had tucked into the back of his waistband. Dropping his handgun, he reached around for the magnum and fumbled to get it out, and when he did he leveled the barrel of the weapon on the monster. But at this time, the man's hitherto constant scream of terror had turned into a wet gurgle sort of wheeze, and Billy beheld the zombie embracing man in a rotting embrace, as its head and ripped the man's throat out.

Staring in horror, Billy could only watch in shock as the man—a S.T.A.R.S. member, one of Rebecca's teammates Billy's hazy mind registered from the vest the man was wearing—convulsed and struggled the undead denizen of the mansion, his feet dancing a small tattoo on the wooden flooring. But his struggles soon slowed, and his mutilated scream died to a small, faint gurgle and then to silence as his body stopped moving altogether, and Billy still could only watch in numb shock as the zombie continued to tear into the deceased man's flesh with a slobbering, wet ripping sound.

Billy was only torn from his macabre vigil by the sound of one of the dining room doors opening and the sound of footsteps approaching. Casting one last look to the now-dead S.T.A.R.S. member, Billy crouched down and retrieved his gun before running down the hall the opposite way of the zombie, and opening the door to a room before shutting and propping is weight against it.

And Billy could only listen as he heard the footsteps come closer; a shout of grim surprise as the person found the zombie feasting on their comrade—assuming that it was another S.T.A.R.S. member, which is more than likely was—and a trio of gunshots, one after another, followed by the sound of a form of the zombie slowly collapsing to the floor.

And then, even after the person had gone, Billy stood there, listening to the sad solitude of silence that the room offered.


	4. REM

There is a common misconception about sleep. Most people believe that you only have one dream during rest; this is, in fact false. Dreams occur during the REM stage of sleep—or, rapid eye movement—and sleep, in turn runs in a number of cycles, allowing people to experience more than one cycle of REM in one night, and thus more than one dream.

You see, most people believe that only one dream can be experienced during sleep because most only usually remember the dream of the REM stage before waking up, with it being fresh in their mind. But no, the fact is that you have more than one dream—or, as it is sometimes, _nightmare_.

A medic on the S.T.A.R.S. Bravo Team had managed to endeavor the first stage of hell in a night of endless terror by enlisting the aide of someone whom was, by society's standards, her bitter and hated enemy. And just as with sleep, the medic got a brief respite from dawn, but now she is in the second cycle of REM—a nightmare worse than the last.

And this time, she doesn't have the help of her black knight…. Will the maiden endure the terror? Or will she succumb to the darkness spawned by the minds of bereaved madmen who have played God?

Authors Note: Okay, yes, I know I haven't updated in about a month and a half, but the truth is I want to be very, very, very careful with how I set out the following events, as they can make or break the story, I feel. I haven't forgotten the story—and you guys won't have to endure an over-half-a-year update-wait period for the next update, either. I just want to ensure that this story is the highest quality one that I can offer to you guys.

Oh, and I know that the little random blurb up top seems strange, but I just typed it out since does not allow the posting of only author's notes as separate chapters, so I did added that to confirm to the rules and guidelines. It doesn't have anything to do with the story, per se, I just took something that I could analogy to the plot and wrote a short, philosophical-like blurb.

I can, however, promise you guys one huge-ass update that might just be ten thousand plus words when I do update, though.


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